Special Kind of Siren
by Croutonic Sarcasm
Summary: He was so perfect, lithe body moving smoothly and lovingly, and Arthur couldn't help if his eyes followed the boy- Alfred was his own special kind of siren. Pairings include: UK/Colonial!US, FrUK, Young!GerMerica
1. Chapter 1

He was beautiful.

That was the only thing going through Arthur's mind as he watched the young colony go about his daily tasks, cleaning morosely and reluctantly. It didn't matter what Alfred did- he made it beautiful. His very presence was gorgeous all by itself. There was nothing that he could not do, and he knew it. Even if Alfred constantly got on his nerves, he couldn't help but admire the smile the boy gave so easily, the self-confidence he exuded, the perfect lilt of his head when he was confused. He was perfect, for the physicality of an eight year old boy. But that was why he couldn't have him.

Arthur turned back to his tea, adjusting the paper before himself before tossing it to the trash. John Locke was ridiculous- his ideas were wonderful, but they were too liberal. No country could have such plans and still stay powerful. That all men were equal and independent, all had a right to Life, Liberty, ans persuit of property. Tch. The man should be burned. He was going to give colonies some bad thoughts. Arthur motioned for a slave to refill his glass of tea; once it emptied again, the darker skinned woman did so silently, though her chocolate eyes were worried.

"Massa?" She ventured quietly, afraid of the whip that Arthur ocassionally used when he was ina bad mood. Right now, though, Arthur was open to listening. He glanced to the woman over the rim of the tea cup. "Yes?"

"Ah, Massa..." She trailed off, looking uncomfortable. "Ain' it time for Massa ta leave for England? The ship be in the harbor..." She took a small step back.

Arthur looked her up and down, making the girl shudder. "Aye." He replied simply before standing and stretching. "Alfred!" He called out, the bright boy turning when he heard his name and almost tripping.

"Arty!" He cried, running back towards the gentleman as he made a beckoning motion, smile as bright as a sunny day. Once he reached the taller, he hugged Arthur tightly, head reaching only to just above Arthur's waist. He looked up and gave _that smile_ before nuzzling Arthur's stomach innocently. "Are we going to play a game?" He queried in his soft British accent.

"How many times must I tell you, brat, my name is Arthur." He answered snippily, making Alfred cringe and begin to let go, hurt. Arthur sighed before giving him a soft hug and taking his hand. "Come. It is sunset and thus, time to get to bed."

"Awh! Arty! I don't want to go to bed!" Alfred protested, but he allowed Arthur to pull him along, his refusal only verbal.

"I don't care." Arthur replied. "I am leaving tomorrow morning at the break of dawn and we shall go to bed now." Alfred huffed and pouted, muttering under his breath but didn't deny Arthur. "Alright..."

Alfred gazed up at Arthur as he was tucked in, blinking innocently before looking around. "Arty... there are ghosts in here..." He mumbled, bringing the covers up to his chin with a fearful glance to the closet. Arthur chuckled.

"If there are, they don't want to harm you." He smiled softly, then, hesitating, jerking to a stop a few times, he leaned down to kiss Alfred's forehead. "I love you, Alfred."

Alfred's lips twitched and his eyes began to well with tears. "Arty, you promised!"

Arthur heaved a sigh, but inside, he was pleased. "Oh, very well." He looked away before turning back with a soft smile, brushing the hair from Alfred's face. "Alfy, you may sleep in my bed."

Alfred moved faster than Arthur had ever seen, leaping from the bed and tearing down the hallway to Arthur's bedroom. "Yay! Arty will protect me from the ghosties!" Arthur's gaze got flat, even as he laughed at his brother's reaction. So cute.

Arthur stood and went to his own room, noting that Alfred was already under the thick covers of the bed and nuzzling the pillow. His eyes softened and he smiled, then began to disrobe to sleep more comfortably, ending up in only a pair of shorts and a thin shirt. Alfred was clothed in much the same. When Arthur got into the bed and turned to lay on his side, Alfred clambored his way over and nuzzled Arthur's back before changing his mind, going over Arthur and, with wide eyes, looked to Arthur. "Will you hold me?"

Arthur took in a deep breath, closing his eyes, but opened his arms. Alfred immediately nuzzled into Arthur's chest smiling. Impulsively, Alfred pulled his head back, making Arthur quirk a thick brow. "What?"

Alfred looked embarrassed, then kissed Arthur's neck hesitently, then did it again, and again, and again... Arthur heard a longing whine, and felt hair between his fingers, then realized that he was starting to pant, he was holding Alfred to his neck, and he was whining and whimpering like a virgin. He choked back a gasp and pulled away from Alfred, who looked taken aback.

"What's wrong, Arty?" He asked, confused, "You seemed like you liked it..." He leaned forward, eyes half-lidding and opening his mouth, tongue sticking out just a touch- he meant to lick Arthur's neck. Arthur's eyes widened at the expression, fingers involuntarily releasing their hold on the boy as that delightful tongue licked his neck. A weakspot, a bad weakspot, and Alfred didn't even know what he was doing.

"You like it, right?" Alfred asked, raising his eyes to Arthur's with a hopeful shine. "Then... I'll keep doing it." Arthur whined and attempted to pull away, but the boy was determined. He stopped Arthur's half-hearted attempts and kissed Arthur's neck, kissing, kissing- oh! He nipped, those little teeth oh so sharp. A moan escaped Arthur's lips, and he couldn't hold it back, hand on the back of Alfred's head and holding him there.

"Oh... Alfred..." He murmured between pants. "Alfred, Alfred..."

The boy smiled and continued, then paused, looking down on Arthur's body. "Arty...What's that?" Arthur opened his eyes to look at what the other meant, seeing his arousal peaking in his pants and his hips making small rocking motions, begging for a touch.

"That's...that's... oh..." Arthur couldn't speak, because at that very moment, Alfred had placed his little hand over the protrusion and was palming it lightly, curious. Arthur involuntarily pressed against the touch, and Alfred blinked when it grew in his hand, then smiled. It must make Arty feel good, if he's pressing for it, so, Alfred would continue.

He rubbed against the hardness in Arthur's pants, hearing Arthur moan and groan. "Oh, Alfred, yes, such a good boy..." He murmured against the pillow, making Alfred smile. Arthur was never nice, so this must really be good. "Alfred, such a good colony, oh yes... so, so proud of you..."

"It feels good, Arty?" Alfred questioned, and Arthur looked. The innocent desire to make Arthur feel good made him hide his face in shame, burying his head in the pillow, but not telling him to stop. How could he? It was as though he was touched by an angel. It just felt too good to stop. A thrill went down his back and he shivered. "Y-yes..."

Alfred smiled brightly, then blinked in thought, staring at Arthur's pants. "Arty... if it feels good when I touch it, would it be even better if I lick it?" Arthur groaned loudly at the thought, gasping.

"I-It's improper..." He could only mumble before Alfred had flipped him, stripped him, and spread his legs. Alfred was really too perceptive right now for a boy that usually couldn't read the atmosphere. It was frus- OH! All thoughts flew from Arthur's head as the inexperienced boy licked him like a lollipop, then suckled on the head experimentally.

"Oh, God, Alfred!" His hands fisted on the sheets, holding hard enough to leave wrinkles. It was so hard not to thrust up into the tight heat of Alfred's mouth, so hard. He couldn't think, it just felt too good. "Oh, more, more, Alfred, you're so good to me, oh yes...I love you so much, Alfred..."

Alfred's persistance and the utter desire and lust that pounded through Arthur made him come quickly, filling the younger's mouth with cum and confusing him. "Ew.." Alfred mumbled out, swallowing it with visible effort. After a moment of wonder, he turned to Arthur, whose hands had made it to Alfred's arms, pulling him in for a tight hug.

"We can't do that again, Alfred." He said in a tone of slight panic and firmness. Alfred glanced to Arthur with confusion over his features.

"But...but that's not fair. I wanna feel good too, Arty..." Alfred whined petulantly.

"Alfred, it's for countries only." Arthur replied, getting his voice and breath back slowly.

"Oh, but I can do it for you?" Alfred scowled and crossed his arms.

"Well, no, it's still ba-"

"Arty! I wanna feel good! That's not fair!" He let the last syllable trail off into a quiet cry.

Arthur gritted his teeth, accidentally popping his jaw and sighed. He wasn't gonig to hear the end of this... "When you're older physically!" He finally gave in.

Alfred looked at him suspiciously. "How old?" Arthur fumbled mentally through the years. Average humans got married at twelve, sometimes, but that was, that wasn't any better. "Arty! Don't lie to me!"

"Ah!" Arthur said in surprise, searching for a reply before spitting out a random number. "Uh, fourteen!"

Alfred sat back on his haunches, eyes still narrowed. "Promise?"

Arthur sighed. "I promise." At a doubtful look from Alfred, he added, "By the Queen." Alfred settled back, assuaged, then snuggled up to Arthur, yawning.

"Okay." He smiled and kissed Arthur on the lips quickly. "I love you."

Arthur frowned to himself, troubled, though he hid it from Alfred, merely kissing the top of his head. "I love you too, More than you will ever know."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: This chapter was written at eleven at night- not too late til you realize that for the past week, I haven't slept more than 4 hours per night. Chipper, eh? So, please, don't kill me too badly.**

"Francis?" Arthur asked in a quiet tone, his voice almost lost amid the bustle of the busy London street. Francis glanced over his shoulder to the short male, curiosity dancing in his sapphire hues. Arthur's breath caught as he saw the dazzling blue. _It's almost the same color..._ He wondered, mind completely captured in his momentary memory of a few months before. He turned his gaze away before it showed. "Am I a monster?"

Francis lost the familiar twinkle and his aura dimmed a bit as his step slowed by a minuscule amount as he contemplated. "Mon ami," he began, "It depends upon who you ask. If you ask me, then non. You are no sort of monster that I fear."

Arthur let out a slightly shaky breath, though he knew that the answer was not what he looked for, nor was the question posed towards Francis specifically. Arthur licked his lips- French had a tendency to made his tongue gummy from the peculiar sounds. He hated it, however, Francis refused to speak English, so to speak to Francis, he had to speak the rather frog-like language. He coughed lightly to dispel his own awkward silence and make himself feel better, though Francis felt nothing was out of the ordinary. Francis' eyes were certainly upon Arthur, a rather sad tinge to the usually bright hues, but nothing more than that was affecting the Frenchman.

Arthur looked away from the grey houses lining the street in imperfect, tottering lines, the roofs seeming to jut out and create a tunnel and surrounding the duo as they walked down the rough cobblestones. The poor cried out for money, many boating wounds rivaling that of a claymore in an attempt to garner sympathy, and by extension, money from the pockets of more wealthy passers-by. Small children played, avoiding the quick horse-drawn carriages of those able to afford it, their playthings simple yet ingenious. Girls played with dollies, the boys with sticks- sometimes, they would join together and overcome the usual "but it's a boy" or "It's a girl" argument, occasionally playing hero and damsel with a villain ready to pounce from the shadows and steal a princess away. Arthur smiled. It was so like Alfred.

He took a deeper breath and spoke still more quietly, so Francis leaned in a bit to hear better. "That is not what I mean."

Francis quirked an eyebrow. Then what could he mean? Did the Briton have some secret he was loath to share? Perhaps Francis could convince him to and learn more of the sarcastic, snippy man he called both enemy and friend. Francis gave a soft purr, then murmured close to Arthur's ear, "Let us go to your home, so that we may speak more freely, oui?"

Arthur hissed in surprise, the air ghosting over the shell of his ear at once irritating and erotic; either way, it was bothersome. He made a sound of agreement, then walked to the crooked curb, snapping his fingers. At once, a horse and buggy materialized, ready to take them where they pleased for a price. Arthur gave directions, then settled in the coach calmly, Francis elegantly stepping into it. They sat together in silence as the wooden wheels clacked over the stone and the horse hooves jarred harshly with the iron kept his eyes out the small window, the drapes obscuring a gloomy sky, threatening to rain down upon the squalor of the city. The water would at once be despised and welcomed; the flowing water would cause the fetid gutters to overfill and pour into the rounded streets, and the air would be clean for even a short time. Arthur, of course, had no umbrella. He had no need of such an item.

Soon, the duo arrived at the well to do home of the England's personification, the large mansion both welcoming and borderline intimidating. Arthur had refined tastes and enjoyed showing such, yet, he wanted no visitors of the common lot. They entered, a nicely dressed butler taking their jackets and hanging them, then led them to a quiet and dim parlor, leaving for a moment only to return with a the makings for afternoon tea. As Arthur made his tea, the only sounds in the room the soft clink of the china touching itself or the stirring spoon, Francis leaned his head on the back of his hand, comfortably bringing up a leg to cross the other, ankle on knee and smiling. Once the tea was prepared -a delicate combination of earl grey, lemon, milk, and honey- he brought the cup to his lips to savor the most English of tea. Francis reached forward as Arthur set the cup down, purposely just brushing his hand over Arthur's as he leaned past and grasped a small tea sandwich, bringing it to his lips and eating it whole.

Arthur's eyes widened a fraction at the lewd action, face dusting with red. He turned to face out the window, always away from Francis as much as possible, and sipped the tea while Francis smiled to himself. The faeries were playing, those who flew zipping pat those who didn't while Princess Sparkles, a lovely blond and blue eyed girl in a fuchsia dress, alternately commanded for things to occur and watched from afar. Without preamble, Arthur spoke again. "Am I a monster?"

Francis glanced about as though the dark walls would suddenly speak volumes of what was bothering Arthur. Sure, Arthur was a little distant, but surely nothing was bothering him so! It was Angleterre, after all. He was always uptight. "Why do you ask, mon ami?" He responded, curiosity and concern making his voice soften from its usual blatant sexuality to a tone of friendship.

The tea cup rattled as Arthur lifted it for another sip, those emerald hues not moving from gazing at a particular spot of warped glass of the window, his gaze unfocused and far away. The sip of the tea was loud and unsettling- Arthur quickly set the cup down once more, then the saucer upon the small table between the men. "Because I have done something very wrong."

Francis lips came together almost in a pout and his lower lip stuck out just a little, an attempt to be cute, Arthur was sure. As if to prove him right, Francis put a thin hand upon Arthur's own, the other tilting up that small chin to meet their eyes. Arthur saw the blue for just a split second before his eyes couldn't handle it and dropped to the pale tea. Francis, now, was actually worried. Arthur was never so...unsure and fragile. It was as though his very existence relied upon Francis' words, and he found that though they played enemies, he treasured that bond of friendship and love that Francis fostered. While Arthur may not feel the same, it only mattered that Francis did. He was willing to wait until the stones grew moss and the roses no longer bloomed, if only to hear the hoped for words but once. But not today, it seemed. "Mon petite chou, what bothers you?"

Arthur bit his bottom lip, worrying at it with his teeth before expelling a heavy breath. "I have committed an indiscretion... A sin of the highest order." His eyes darted about, unable to stay still. His heart beat quickly and he shivered, as though the merry fire dancing in the fireplace did not warm him, but chilled him to the bone. His voice was almost inaudible as he whispered his deed. "I desire Alfred as a man desires a woman... and his hands have known my body."

Francis kept himself cool and loose, his life of knowing Arthur lending him an air of calmness that nothing could dispel, even if on the inside he shook and reeled. Only a small hitch of his breath gave it away, and as Arthur was currently fighting back tears that clouded the color of the emerald and his hands fisted upon his knees, he did not notice in the least. Francis collected himself, then smoothly stood and brought Arthur to stand as well. Arthur fought weakly, pushing against the Frenchman as though Francis would simply let him go at the slightest sign of denial, and Francis embraced him tightly. He would not pretend that what Arthur did was not a grievous sin, but he knew that saying anything further would not help. Arthur had likely already said anything negative that could be said to himself.

"It is but the past." He murmured softly in the yellow strands, his hand brushing down Arthur's back as the smaller male shook in his arms. "Let it not happen again, and surely God will forgive. He is lazy with aiding me- there is no reason he would not be lazy with punishing you." He reassured him, feeling those small hands clench at the fabric of his clothing as though ready to tear at it, then weight leaned upon him a little more. Gradually, Arthur relaxed against Francis, clinging, shaking, crying.

"The future will be bright. Never doubt in the forgiving nature of the Lord, and he shall not doubt in you. You will be alright." Francis just spoke on and on, saying what he both what he felt to be true as well as what would assist the man that broke in his arms to piece himself back together.

"But Francis..." The shaking voice mumbled in half English, half-French, "I... I... I still _want_ him! I still _lust_ for his touch! I _desire_ it so that I feel as if I should melt if he so much as touches my hand!" He collapsed into a sobbing mess at Francis' feet, unable to hold himself up any longer. Francis was by his side in moments, brushing tears away with soft fingers and kissing his tear-sodden cheeks lightly. He meet wobbly eyes with the grace of a king, then smiled softly.

"All angels have temptations, and some have dappled wings, mon cher, but angels are forever held in God's heart as his most favored and loved beings. I know this for a fact," His thumb pushed away a stray tear. "For you are the most beautiful angel to ever exist." He leaned forward and met their lips together, as they had met many times before. Arthur hesitantly kissed back, eyes closing gently as Francis distracted him. His lips moved against Arthur's just so, and Arthur relaxed. A tongue licked at the plump pink lips and a gasp parted them, and Arthur put his arms about Francis' neck. It moved within, touching Arthur's lightly and teasing, and Arthur whimpered, arching for the touch. Before it was done, he was holding on to Francis to pull him closer.

Francis pulled away, looking more loving than Arthur had ever seen the perpetually loving man. It was different. It was deeper, more assured, and more patient. He swallowed hard upon seeing the love reflecting from Francis' eyes.- he had been aware, but he hadn't realized just how much the other had meant it when he so freely said the word to everybody.

"Je t'aime, mon cher," He said gently. "I will help you with this in any manner I am able." He ran a hand down Arthur's side, making the man pull away as it tickled, then stop breathing as it awoke desire. "If I must please you each day, then I shall to turn your thoughts to me. There will not be any time for you to think of an eight year old, inexperienced, unknowing boy." His eyes got predatory as his hand wandered between Arthur's legs to touch lightly. "When you are aroused, I shall slake your lust."

Arthur whimpered, hips rolling against the floor towards the teasingly offered hand. Francis did not give any sort of relief, however, merely brushing over the beginnings of Arthur's arousal. Arthur's cheeks were pinched red and his eyes were half-lidded; still beautiful, though they were puffy from tears. "I will please you with as many fantasies as your mind can come up with," Francis continued. "I will warm your bed and become your lover. When you think of _him_... turn to me. I will be there. But breathe my name, and I will fill your nights with such pleasure that you will be unable to think of him. Your lips will only form my name, your voice will crack with French, and your body will shiver with desire that only I shall satisfy."

Francis' hand grasped him through the trousers, making Arthur's voice catch and squeak, head thrown back from the relief of finally betting the friction he so ardently desired. "In time... I will make you forget about him." He promised quietly, knowing that Arthur was too far gone to hear and understand. "And you will fall in love with me, as I fell in love with you, so very long ago."

Arthur merely whimpered and cried as the touch got altogether more real, more solid when the trousers and pants were about his knees in seconds. "Oh, oh~!" He bucked hard as Francis used each touch with confident ease of practice. "Oh, oh yes!" Francis' fingers played Arthur like an instrument, guiding him closer to release then stopping, leaving Arthur a begging mess. his hair was scattered, the rug beneath him sprinkled with precum and wrinkled as Arthur moved, fingers clawing at the fabric as he arched, begging for more. "Oh, please!"

Francis moved close to Arthur's ear. "My name?" He began to move slowly, teasingly.

"Francis, you bloody fro-og!" Arthur's voice lapsed as he squeaked at the sudden movement. So close...! "Oh, yes, faster, please, oh, please, please, please!" He cried out as a mantra, his peak coming so very close. It was imminent, and Arthur tended, hips shaking as he tensed, mouth open in a soundless scream as he felt fire melt his bones.

"Alfred!" He cried loudly as he peaked, ribbons of white pouring him him to splash over Francis' knowing fingers and hand, feeling perfect. Alfred was there, his smile so bright and loving, his touch so solid and sweet that it was like it was alright. Like he could love him without it being a sin.

Francis merely wiped his hand off on a towel, sad, but understanding. It was not going to be easy. It was going to take time. But seeing Arthur's hips finishing the final roll and the smaller man slump against the ground, he knew he would do it. There was nothing he would not do for love.

Arthur blinked, and the gorgeous vision was gone like the mist chased by the sun. Something dripped to the floor, almost by his ear, and he brought up a hand to touch his face. He was already crying.

**Mon ami = My friend**

**Mon petite chou = literally, "My little cabbage," but meaning "My dear"**

**Je t'aime = I love you (Pretty obvious, but just in case)**

**Oui/Non = Yes/no**

**Angleterre = England**

**I hope you enjoyed this. Just so you know, I meant for the sex scene to be undescriptive- it was mainly about Arthur feeling desire and Francis' words than what he was actually doing. Francis did most movements than I wrote, but his words were more important to the story. Thank you for reading, and I hope you review! :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**Yay for chapter three~! :3 I hope you guys like what's going on and enjoy my writing. ^^**

-1749, about 50 years later-

Alfred turned from the window to see a colored woman walk past, holding something in her hands. He blinked then called out, "Hannah! What's that?"

The darker woman turned, her hair sprinkled with grey. It was the only indication of her age, and she was growing older much faster than Alfred was. A silver platter was in her hands with the makings for tea as well as some light food.

"Tis tea time, Massa Alfred," she said gently. "Get away from the window, you's in danger of falling. Besides, Ludwig ain't due for some time."

Alfred pouted but clamored down from the high perch of the second story windowsill, shoes making a soft _thunk_ as they struck the ground. He followed after Hannah when she beckoned with her head, doing as he was told and listening to his nanny. He didn't want to, of course. He wanted to wait for Ludwig to appear so they could play. Gilbert had sent a letter ahead that they would come over soon, but knowing the travel took such a long time, it was in vain that Alfred waited each day for his best friend- the last time he had seen him had been before Arthur had left and not returned. That was about, oh, 1690? He didn't pay much attention to dates, but he did know that it was the 1700s now, and he was older physically. Hannah said she estimated that he was fifteen.

A few minutes later, Alfred sat in the parlour, sipping at the tea contentedly. He did rather like the taste, though he always felt something was missing. Arthur's tea was always sharp, and Alfred liked it more than his own tea, though he couldn't figure out why. It wasn't the lemon; he'd tried that til the tea was pale and tasted of nothing but lemon. He had a feeling Hannah knew, but she wasn't about to tell him. When he set the cup down, she refilled it and remade the tea for him as he nibbled at a sandwich. He sighed.

"Hannah, how long til Ludwig will be here?" he asked finally, poking at the sandwich more than he was actually eating it, chasing it around the small plate with a finger.

Hannah smiled good-naturedly. The boy really had no patience. Luckily for Alfred, the house had received a letter recently that Ludwig should arrive today. She was still very proud of herself for being able to read it, albeit slowly. Arthur was really too kind- she knew how to tell time and she could read! He was a wonderful master, even to those horrid outdoor slaves, and he had taught Hannah things most men of the time didn't know, let alone a colored woman. Of course, it was mainly so that Arthur had someone trustworthy to take care of Alfred and be the mistress of the home, but it still made her proud of herself for earning that trust.

"Well, Massa, try going outside. Mayhaps he'll arrive today," she said softly a few moments after, causing Alfred's head to jerk up in surprise and joy, the spoon he had been stirring the tea with almost knocking the teacup over.

"Really?" he asked excitedly, bright-eyed and sitting up straight. She nodded.

"Really." In a flash, the boy was up and out of the room, heading outside.

"Haha, we're almost here, Kleiner Wünderbar!" Gilbert announced as they rounded a bend in the road, walking towards Alfred and Arthur's mansion. It was cheaper than a carriage, and Gilbert thought it taught discipline anyway.

Ludwig looked away from his older brother, the young thirteen year old was embarrassed by the nickname he'd been given. After all, 'Little Awesome' just wasn't cool. It was mortifying. At least Gilbert didn't use it in public anymore.

"Gut," Ludwig replied simply, not really sure what else to say.

He adjusted the lederhosen suspenders, the shorts feeling much too short; they stopped halfway up his thighs. He felt overexposed, but Gilbert had refused to let him wear anything else. Gilbert was stern on rules, and Ludwig had to wear what Gilbert wanted- no exceptions. He couldn't even slick back his hair like he wanted to! It was so annoying and got in his face all the time, but Gilbert refused to relent. Ludwig was just too young, according to his older brother. Gilbert, of course, wore whatever he wanted. In this case, a pompous military outfit he had designed himself. Each time Ludwig saw it, the only word that really came to mind was _blue_. There was so much of the color that it was hard to distinguish some pieces from others, but Gilbert liked it, and that was all that mattered.

"How long will it be, Bruder?" Ludwig asked after a short time, feeling the dirt of the road catch on his legs, and it made him feel dirty. It was gross, and he wanted a bath- not that he'd ever admit it.

"I'unno," Gilbert replied flippantly. "I mean, for all I know, we could be lost. No!" He interrupted himself, oblivious to Ludwig's exasperated expression. "We're not lost! We have money and status! We're on an adventure! A side trip! Never lost. Kesesesese!" He laughed. Ludwig's eyebrows went up, and he frowned slightly. Not this again. They were always lost when Gilbert led, and Gilbert never cared as long as he had a woman or a bier. Bier was good, though, Ludwig mused. It made him feel funny after a while, but the British beer was gross. It was so thin. And the colony's beer! Alfred's land's beer was even worse. Interrupting his thoughts, a blond blur dove through the dust kicked up by their feet and tackled Ludwig to the ground.

"Ludwig!" it cried out. It was Alfred, and Ludwig was almost unconscious. Gilbert, however, just burst out laughing.

"Vigilance! Always pay attention to your surroundings, or you will die!" Gilbert managed through his laughing, always in his military mode now that Fredrick II was on his throne. He was a military genius, it was clear. Prussia had finally gotten Silesia, a portion of Austria. Old Fritz, as Prussia called Fredrick II, was cautioning patience for a bit. Til then, Prussia was always on edge and ready to fight. Alfred's surprise attack just made him laugh, though.

Ludwig managed a few stumbling sentences as Alfred hugged him tightly, rambling on and on about things that Ludwig had no knowledge of or really cared about.

"Ah, Bruder, get him off of me! He's smashing me!" he cried out to Gilbert, half playing but also half-panicked by the tight embrace Alfred had around him. Alfred heard and immediately leapt off, still jabbering away, grabbing Ludwig's arm and dragging him towards his house. Hannah had come after him, worried as to where Alfred had run off to, so she was left with Gilbert after a few moments when the boys disappeared from sight. She made sure they didn't see, then sighed and turned to Gilbert.

"Massa Beilschmidt, may I ask yous a question?" she asked with a serious tone. Gilbert had calmed by this time, and, hearing the tone, frowned and straightened. He respected intelligence was proven many times over by Arthur, and she was the mistress of the house when Arthur was gone, so when she spoke seriously, he got serious, too.

"Ja? What is it?" he asked a touch concerned. Hannah was usually so happy, so it was worrying that she wasn't. Hannah dallied, wasting time before she set off towards the mansion slowly, Gilbert falling in by her side and waiting.

She bit her lip before she finally spoke. "You speak to Massa Arthur... Do you know why he don't visit Alfred no more?"

Gilbert sighed. "Nein. But!" he put a finger up in the air. "It's highly likely that he and I are going to be allies soon- people are pissed that I took Silesia, and Austria is gunning to get it back. If war starts, he and I decided that we would be on the same side. I can try to discuss it with him. I mean, what can't awesome accomplish?" He grinned.

Hannah laughed lightly, almost a girlish titter. "Very true, Massa. One more question?" she ventured. He nodded and waved a hand as a go ahead signal. She spoke again. "Massa Arthur hasn't come around in a very long time, and even England hasn't said much to the colonies." Gilbert looked askance at her, unsure of where it was going. "Does that have to do with it, do you think?"

Gilbert hummed in thought, tapping his chin with a white gloved hand. "It might, but Europe is busy with wars and potential wars right now. It could erupt at any time. Hell, there's been war and frustration for the past dozen and some odd years or so. He might just be busy."

Hannah went silent, walking with her head down, thinking. It was clear there was more on her mind as the mansion showed up on the horizon, only a few hundred yards away as it loomed from the copse of trees they were leaving.

"What else is it, Hannah?" Gilbert asked, seeing her pensive mood.

Hannah didn't look up. "Massa, Alfred's a growing boy. He needs a father figure. He needs Arthur. If Arthur can't be about, he'll grow up without a daddy and be worse for it. It might lead to bad blood if Arthur bursts in as a father after this war business is over. You understand?" She felt out of her league, and as if she was treading dangerous waters by questioning Arthur's motives, but she felt it had to be said. It was a good thing that Gilbert found no reason that she should not question and rather encouraged it.

Gilbert hummed again, muttering to himself in German for a moment before switching over to English in the middle of a sentence. "...and that might be worse if I do that but-" His voice rose to address her more specifically, "I'll see what I can do."

Hannah nodded and turned to him, curtsying deeply. "Thank'ee Massa Beilschmidt." Gilbert waved her thanks away, stopping his trek towards the house. "Well, I have things to do back in Europe. Mind watching over the brats for a few months while I go fight and all that?"

Hannah beamed. Alfred had been so lonely. Having a friend over for some time would be perfect. "Aye. Alfred needs a friend."

Gilbert nodded. "Alright. I'll be back to pick Ludwig up when I have time. Probably not for a few years, though. If he breaks anything, just write it down. I'll buy a new one," he shrugged- he was powerful, and he was rich. He could probably buy the colony itself if he wanted to.

"Yes, Massa," she curtsied again and walked towards the house, beaming. She had a friend, somebody to assist her. Now, all would be well... if only Arthur would visit.

**ALRIGHT! History time. Fredrick II got the throne in 1740, Silesia was taken in 1748 by the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle and Austria was reaaaaally butthurt about it. All this history does have a place in this story, but sit tight and wait for the next chapter- All history!**


	4. Chapter 4

**My, my, you guys are getting an update faster than I anticipated. :3 I hope y'all like this chapter!**

==1756==

"Mon Dieu..." Francis murmured to himself, looking over all the documents his people sent to him. There were tensions in the New World, it seemed.

It was amusing, really. The British colonies were trying to expand into the French colonies and into the Indian land. It wasn't working out too well though. The combined might of the French and the Indians were easily keeping the British away. It was more of a stalemate than anything else, and both were losing, really. The only winners were the British colonies, and by extension, America, that precocious boy. He was probably growing a bit as well, France mused, playing with a quill.

Ink splattered from the tip of the feather to stain the parchment before the Frenchman, but he didn't mind too much. He sighed and got a new pice of parchment, then wrote out a new order, then sent it off. It would take a while to get there, but it would do.

==New France==

Matthew glanced up from holding Kumajiro, the young boy unsure of what to do with the letter the man handed him. He took it after a short time, the soldier nodding and walking back to his horse, mounting and trotting off. Matthew was older and more mature than he looked, so Francis often sent him orders specifically to relay to others, trusting his colony to do as he commanded. He opened the letter and began to read.

_New France (and mon cher Mathieu),_

_Keep aligning with the natives and fight off the British colonies. Do not let him take your land. I know it hurts for you to fight Alfred, but you're a good boy. Do as Papa says._

_With love,_

_Francis Bonnefoy (France)_

Matthew sighed and tucked the letter away in his jacket. It was time to fight- he heard the hoofbeats beating into his land and coming closer, a heavy tread that made his heart jump. He really hated fighting.

"Kumakichi, we have to go fight," He informed the bear.

"Who are you?" Kumajiro, as the bear was actually called, replied.

Canada sighed again. "My name is Matthew, Kuma."

"Oh..." The bear answered, then nodded. "Alright. I'll help you get your armor and your horse." Matthew set the bear down and it tottered off with unsteady steps, almost like a toddler. Matthew followed. He didn't want to fight, especially not Alfred.

==The Kingdom of Prussia==

Prussia cackled as he rode his horse by his leader, Frederick II. "Fritz, this is great! I love war!" He cackled loudly.

The leader was not as amused. He flicked the reins on his horse to urge it to trot a bit faster. "War is not something to celebrate, Preußen," he commented lowly. Gilbert's laughter faded, but he respected Frederick too much to counter-argue.

"Well, I like that we're taking the initiative then! Saxony and Bohemia won't know what hit 'em til I announce myself as the Awesome!" He grinned, glancing over to Frederick proudly. He really had an awesome leader. This man was pretty good- not awesome, but close. If he managed this war and won, he'd be awesome. After all, if allies jumped in on this, Prussia and Great Britian would be allies against France, Russia, Austria, Sweden, and Saxony. Well, Saxony obviously. They were invading.

"Yes, well, don't get too complacent. A man who thinks he has it all will have nothing," Frederick answered, snapping the reins once more, his large horse jumping forward into a gallop, Prussia urging his own horse to do the same. "We're here. Ready your weapons."

Gilbert's eyes widened and his scarlet eyes shone at the prospect of kicking ass. "'Course! Well, I can't use my sword on horseback, so I'll have to wait til we get there."

Frederick looked exasperated. "Are you going to weild your Zweihänder again?"

Gilbert nodded proudly, adjusting the cravat spilling from his uniform to fall on his chest in a straighter manner and patting the large sword than hung across his back, stretching from shoulder to hip and beyond. "Of course! It's the only sword that can compare to my awesome."

Frederick sighed. Gilbert was really too much somtimes, but he did have to admit that Gilbert was an expert as weilding the massive weapon. Gilbert's sword, a Two-Hander in English, was one of the largest swords ever created. It was four feet long and weighed a little under ten pounds; it was seemingly unweildy to use, but Gilbert managed just fine.

Then again, a determined Gilbert was vicious and would manage things most thought impossible of the man. He was a demon on the battlefield and used his station as a nation to terrify the enemy before using his sword, though the sight of the massive weapon used so easily by a man with glowing red eyes and usually covered in blood generally helped terrify the enemy so much that Gilbert himself killed more men than three combined.

Frederick just shook his head. "Those were put out of commission years ago, Preußen. You're no Grutte Pier. One day, you will find somebody stronger than you and he will rip the sword from your hands. What will you do then?"

Gilbert laughed at the idea of somebody besting him in war, but, to humor his leader, he would answer as though it was possible. He leaned forward, timing his movement with the beat of the horse hooves and reached to his side and pulled out a smaller, more average sword. "I have this."

"And if that is taken as well?" Frederick persisted.

Gilbert shrugged, sheathing the weapon once more. "Then I strangle him. I don't know, Fritz. I'll be fine. I mean, I'm in top shape. Look at me. I won't lose anything- I'm a country."

Frederick looked less than pleased. "But you can still die, can you not?"

Gilbert frowned, thoughtful. "You know, I _don't_ know that." Frederick's gaze flattened, but Prussia continued on. "I'd ask Austria, since he knows more about this country shit than me, but we're kinda going to fight him. I don't think countries can unless it's by another country. Or maybe they get reborn?"

He shrugged. "I won't lose this fight anyway. You'll see what a real nation can do, Fritz. I'll make you proud." He beamed, a large smile full of confidence in himself and his boss. Of course he would win. He was the awesomest country around and the best person in the world. Nobody could beat him.

Frederick laughed. "We'll see," he said before turning his attention back to managing the army behind himself. He wasn't going to inflate the nation's already superhuman ego, but he did admit that Prussia knew himself than Frederick ever would, and, if he was forced to be serious, probably a better soldier.

"It's time to get serious. We're almost there," He announced a short time later as the enemy became visible on the horizon, his expression steeling and ready for what must come next. Gilbert, rather than laughing it off, nodded curtly and adopted a serious expression of his own. He called over his shoulder in sharp commands, readying the army.

It was time to start a world war.

==1758==

England pulled at his hair in frustration, teeth gritting. Those blasted French! Those bloody frogs! The British were superior in every way, _but those damn French kept winning!_ Not to mention the war in Europe. Well, the war there was going just fine- Prussia's new leader was evidently an intelligent man and they were winning hand over fist. Not much was going on apart from death, though, so it wasn't much to worry about.

The British campaign to invade Louisburg and lay seige to Fort William Henry had gone terribly, and the British rule there had failed, leaving William Pitt to take over. He worked for the colonies, not England, and that's what was so blasted infuriating! How could the British lose to _frogs_? If anything positive was to be taken from this, it was that France wasn't bothering with putting new troops in New France. The fool! The colonies were worth everything. Nothing would be spared in protecting Alfr- the colonies!

How could Francis do this? How could he, when only a few years before he had sworn he loved Arthur, that he would help him with his desires? The lust hadn't faded; if anything, it had increased. He could see Alfred in his mind's eye, watch him grow to an acceptable age, but it was all thought. He didn't WANT Alfred to grow up. He wanted Alfred to stay young and never leave. Alfred was all Arthur's and Arthur's alone. Nobody else would be allowed near him, nobody would touch him. Alfred would stay pure, forever perfect to look at with the rose-colored glasses that innocence lent to children.

Arthur wrenched his thoughts away from the boy before he got too encapsulated in his lust and got back to the problem at hand. France had defeated his last two pushes into New France. Clearly, a new plan was needed.

As he began working on the plans, calculating cost of food, transportation, and other necessities, he tried to ignore a small niggling in the back of his mind, a little voice that said _Francis isn't France- Francis is a man, France is the nation_. Arthur refused to allow himself to believe it. France was a threat to Alfred. He had to deal with it severely.

==A few days later==

Francis entered the British camp carefully, sneaking past the tired guards. Midnight lent him its glamour, hiding him from sight by cloaking him in darkness. Like a silent cat, he slipped into Arthur's tent and stood behind the busily working man. Arthur was so engrossed in his work that he had not heard the intrusion, so, after waiting for a few moments, France slid a hand to cover Arthur's mouth to stop any startled yells and a hand over Arthur's groin. "Bonjour~" he cooed.

Arthur yelped, reddening at the touch, then bit the hand, making Francis squeak and release his hold on the Englishman. Arthur stood, the chair he had sat in pushing back and putting Francis off balance. In a flash, Arthur was behind Francis with a flintlock pistol to the Frenchman's head, scowling and snapping, "What the bloody hell do you think you are doing, infiltrating _my_ camp at midnight you sodding frog?"

Francis merely made a sound quite like a whine, like he wanted sympathy. "Oh, mon cher, I am here to keep you from Alfred, remember? I only come here to grace your bed and warm your nights."

"Tch." Arthur wasn't buying it and didn't care. "You're trying to pull me away from Alfred with this blasted war and keep me from him."

Francis shrugged slightly, raising his hands in a way that said "I don't know." He licked his lips and turned to face Arthur, ignoring the pistol that hadn't wavered from its position at his temple. "Arthur, mon amour, I haven't a clue what you mean."

"You're lying!" The pistol wavered now, but only from the force of the declaration, the smaller male positively shaking with anger. "You're in this war to distract me from Alfred!"

Francis quirked a brow, glancing to the sides of the tent, hearing mutterings outside. In a lower, quieter voice, he replied, "Might I remind you that it was _your_ ally that began this war, Angleterre? Prusse started it, not I."

Arthur huffed, though he was unable to deny the truth of the statement. "But you're forcing Matthew to fight against Alfred, you're putting my boy in danger. What if he dies?" He sounded panicked by the end, hand tightening on the weapon in his hand. France's blue eyes glanced to the pistol for only a moment before meeting Arthur's emerald orbs once more.

"I do not know know if he is fighting, Arthur," He said, keeping his voice soft. "If he is, he is fighting because the colonies are attempting to take land from New France. If he fights, it is because you chose to challenge my rule of the New World."

Arthur scowled. "I want you away from my little boy, you perverted frog."

Francis was amused by this, a smile lifting his lips. "Your 'little boy' is the same boy you lust over. Tell me... is it that he is young or that he is innocent that you desire him?"

Arthur was startled by the sudden change, the weapon's angle changing from ramrod horizontal to only vaguely at Francis' temple. "I-I don't know!" He answered, still defensive.

Francis shrugged the answer away; it didn't really matter anyway. "That little boy, if he is fighting, is fighting because you tell him to. You tell him to try to take New France, and you pit him against his brother, Mathieu. You tell him to stay home and to mind his nanny, to do as you say. He is surely missing you. How long has it been since you last visited? And yet you command him about... You're confining him in a cage, Arthur. What if he grows to resent you?"

Arthur recoiled, the words striking a deep fear and making him flinch. The pistol was lowered from Francis' head to rest at his side, the free hand raising to hold his own head. "He- he wouldn't resent me. He loves me. He does. I know he does. Just as I love him. I love him so much, so much that is _hurts_, Francis. It _burns_ inside when I think of him and I want to hold him, keep him, and never let anybody harm him."

Francis' expression turned melancholy. It was clear that Arthur's desire had gotten worse, almost obsessive instead of loving. This was going to turn out badly if he didn't improve at least to the level he had been at fifty years prior. Desiring and knowing not to touch instead of desiring with such fervour that he wanted to keep Alfred in a small cage like a bird.

"Caged birds do not sing, mon cher," Francis offered, taking the weapon from Arthur's limp hand and setting it on the small desk. "You would do well to release him from your lustful nature."

Arthur's hand clenched on his head, grasping a fistful of hair and tugging enough to hurt. He gasped as though he had been dunked in cold water, taking heaving breaths. After a few moments, he let go of the blond strands and raised his head, pain in his eyes.

"How do you treat Matthew?"

Francis frowned, confused by the sudden question. "Mathieu? Why, he is almost autonomous. He's a good boy and he can provide for himself. He does as he pleases, roams where he desires, and is quite mature."

Arthur gazed at Francis for a short time, then, "Does he fight in the war?"

Francis' eyebrow rose, wondering where it was going, then nodded slowly. "Oui. So?"

Arthur's expression hardened, anger returning. "You allow a young boy, merely twelve last I heard, to fight in a war that could kill him?"

Francis took a step back at the vemon in Arthur's voice. "Mon Dieu, Arthur, he is not twelve."

Arthur's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How old is he, then?"

"Thirteen."

"Thirteen!" Arthur screeched. "Thirteen? You allow a boy whose nadgers have barely fallen to fight against men twice his age and twice his strength?"

Francis flinched. "Oui. But they are not stronger, he is Alfred's brother. The boy can-"

"It's not about how strong he is! He's too young, Francis! I thought you were better than though, but obviously my views of frogs has been elevated by the caring you had shown me. How could you do that? Be so sweet to me, saying you would take care of me, and yet leave your own _child_ to take care of himself when the boy probably still wears short trousers?" Arthur was screaming, furious. If that was Francis' caring, he wanted none of it.

What if Matthew's foolish amount of freedom was seen by Alfred? What if Alfred wanted such freedom? He wasn't ready for it. He'd die! It was why Alfred was told to stay home with Hannah and let the woman take care of him. He wasgiven explicit instructions not to fight, but if hesaw his younger brother engaging in warfare, would Alfred not want to join as well? Alfred would learn from the abandoned child that if Francis cared so little about Matthew that he was allowed to fight, why, he might think that Arthur was just the same! Oh no no no. Arthur was going to have to put an end to this nonsense right _now._

He was calm, an icy anger having cooled from the erupting volcano of fury. Francis, for his part, looked a touch scared, but seeing the calm settle over Arthur's features, he knew it was worse than he thought. Francis had not made it better, he had made it worse! Francis regretted coming over to visit Arthur intensely.

He spoke up quietly, raising a hand with the forefinger up as though to make a point. "Arthur, don't you think you are acting irrationally?"

"No." Arthur replied coolly, "I think I am acting like a responsible parent. You have til the count of three to leave my tent this instant or I will turn you into a smear on my floor. I don't want frog oil to ruin my tent. Get. Out." The last two words were hissed, green eyes narrowed.

Francis didn't even try to negotiate. It was beyond words. He fled, no longer sneaking through the camp but running as fast as he could. Francis, though, was not afraid for himself. He was afraid for Alfred.

**So, here's the newest chapter! Tell me what you think, please? Constructive criticism is more than welcomed, but please, don't say things like "Ugh, FrUK" or something of the sort. It's part of the story and has a large place in it. Thank you~! Oh! And Grutte Pier was a guy in the 1500s who weilded a 6 foot Zweihänder with amazing strength. Legends say he was seven feet tall and wicked strong. The rest of the history in the chapter is basically how it's presented.**


	5. Chapter 5

**New chapter? New ideas popping up from roleplaying with my Germangland? TWEAKS TO THE ORIGINAL PLOT!**

**Yes. Yes there is.**

**I hope you like!**

==1763==

Arthur gloated at the meeting table. The nations were gathered, the Seven Years War was over, and by God, he'd _won._ He smiled viciously, watching a wounded Roderich touch his hair every now and then from the pain of losing Silesia, then glanced to Gilbert. Gilbert was proud, but nursing wounds of his own. He had almost died when Ivan had invaded and claimed Berlin and Königsberg, but he survived- just barely, but he survived. His leader, Frederick II had proved absolutely invincible. A few battles and some severe defeats had occurred, but nothing that Prussia could not recover from. He had the land he desired. Sweden had left early and though harmed, was not unduly so. All who had stood against England and Prussia's combined might though, were in ruins. And _France_, that hedonistic, wine-drinking bastard, was done. It was time for some treaties.

Arthur stood up before the round table of nations, capturing their attention easily. "Nations gathered about!" He cried, and all heads turned his way, dim in the candle-lit room and rather difficult to see through, but his voice was projecting well. "Since Prussia and I have won the war, we have certain conquests we'd like delivered."

Arthur glanced to Gilbert, seeing the silver-haired man stand weakly and with obvious effort, gasping for breath but still proud. Blood soaked through his uniform, staining it scarlet, but he did not double over or give in to the excruciating pain. Arthur respected him quite a lot more- before the war, Gilbert had been little more than a brat with a lot of words. But now, he was a world power.

Gilbert waited a beat to catch his breath, then surveyed the room with arrogance before shaking his head and sitting down. He had nothing to say. Partially because he had what he wanted to begin with and partially because he hurt too much. He'd make his requests later. Fritz wasn't going to fight anymore, something Arthur felt intelligent. The man had proved his worth on the battlefield, but any more and Prussia might just collapse. Luckily, Frederick had decided that there wasn't any major tracts of land or such that he wanted at the present time, so, Prussia was silent.

Arthur, however, was far from it. "I have demands," he announced pompously, pulling out a round scroll of parchment on which his demands were written on. He unrolled it and the sheer size of the scroll made the defeated countries gape. Even Russia looked uncomfortable.

"I want India from France. I want Senegal, Saint Louis, Goreé, and the French post on the Gambia, all of which are in West Africa."

Gilbert's brow furrowed. These were all French territories. Why was he so dead set against France? Well, apart from always being against him, of course. But now, it was just vicious, chopping France up into little pieces.

Francis, for his part, was sitting silently with poise; at least, as much poise and elegance he could muster with bandages wrapped over the majority of his body and red staining the white bandages. But he tried, and Gilbert gave him points for even staying conscious. Gilbert swallowed his thoughts, curious, and listened as Arthur continued on.

"I also want Minorca. France, you are to give Spain the Louisiana territories," Arthur continued, displeased with that, but could not argue with his leader. It was better, though. Francis would be further away from little Alfred and, although Spain was a known child-toucher (Arthur couldn't get the image of Spain and the Italies out of his head sometimes), he knew better than to touch Arthur's children. All Arthur had to do was breathe a word of the defeat of the Spanish Armada and the Spaniard was like quicksilver in his hands, easy to mold and quick to flow to the easier direction. Luckily though, he was quick to add, "Oh, and Spain, you are to surrender Florida to the British Colonies so that they may expand south."

But Arthur was not yet done. He cleared his throat, expression lighting up with a savage glee as he began to read the next proclamation.

"France has the choice of keeping the sugar-producing and money-making Caribbean islands of Guadeloupe and Martinique," he smiled, glancing to Francis.

Francis frowned, unsure. Those two islands made a staggering amount of money for the nation of France and the English knew it- so why was he offered them? There had to be a catch.

"Or France may keep all but the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon of New France."

Francis blinked, the words needing to sink in. Only those islands? But that meant-

"Angleterre!" Francis shot up to his feet, horrified and almost crying. "Do you expect me to give up the love of my life, mon fils Matthieu?" He screeched. "Mon Dieu, that is my _son_! You cannot do this, you must not do this!" He dropped like a stone, burying his face in his hands and openly crying. All of the nations with brothers, sans Arthur, stared at Francis with pity. It was literally a choice of his son or his money.

Arthur, for his part, looked... positively joyful, Gilbert noted, watching the small man's expression glow with a vicious derangement that rather concerned him. Not that he really gave a damn about Arthur, but rather, why the hell was he so happy to watch Francis tear himself in two? It was obvious what Francis was going to have to pick- his king would have his head if he chose the relatively poor, useless colony of New France over the lucrative Caribbean islands. But did Arthur had to get such pleasure from it?

Arthur stared down at the man who was weeping by his boots, then pointedly took a step away and flicked his foot to dislodge a stray tear that had fallen on the leather with a disgusted expression. "Weep elsewhere, Frog, but don't stain my shoes with your filth."

Francis merely cried all the harder.

==The New World==

Alfred barged into the guest room where Ludwig lodged, rage in his features as he stomped about almost screaming, making Ludwig stare with wide eyes. "How dare he? Just because the war is over he has no bloody right to suddenly begin with this! He told me I would be left alone and that he was too busy in Europe to bother with me. Then what's this? THIS?" He screeched, throwing the rolled parchment to Ludwig.

Normally Ludwig would catch it, however, his hands were to busy holding a round pillow over his lap tightly and looking awkward to see it in time to grab it from the air. He watched it fall by his side to the windowseat, then grasped it with one hand as Alfred continued to rave about a Proclamation or something. Ludwig unrolled the parchment, reading the English slowly and haltingly.

_The colonies are forbidden to cross the divide of the nation called the Appalachian Mountains and are to leave the land alone. It is an Indian Reserve._

_-England_

Ludwig frowned. More laws on top of the Navigation Acts, the Molasses Act, and the Writ of Assistance? This wasn't going to go well... He looked up from the paper to see Alfred in a rage, face twisted and red from anger.

"I'm doing just fine! I will protest this will all my might!" He screamed, stamping his foot on the ground without thoughts. Ludwig watched with a gulp as the floorboard snapped under the power the elder boy wielded.

"Uhm... Alfred... James Otis protested the Writ, remember? He lost..." Ludwig offered, having kept up with Alfred's political atmosphere, seeing as Alfred was terrible with organization. He would have lost all the orders had it not been for Ludwig.

"I'll fight it! I'll make a law!" Alfred snapped in return, then spun on his heel and kicked at the wall, tearing a hole in it.

Ludwig bit his lip and swallowed hard. "Well, you- you can't. It's from the king. Remember when Patrick Henry fought against the King vetoing a law in Virginia? That was only last year and the King stamped on your autonomy."

Alfred paused, confused a little. "Autonomy?"

"Self-rule..." Ludwig replied, pointing to a paper on a messy desk. "Remember?"

Alfred took a deep breath to calm down, making Ludwig feel only marginally better. After all, the boy had just ruined the floor and the wall without any effort. Alfred thought for a few moments, closing his eyes as if to recall the image of the parchment. After that, he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. I remember now."

Alfred seemed to calm for a moment, and Ludwig let out a soft breath of his own. He wasn't screa-

A piercing high pitched scream of anger tore itself from Alfred's throat, apparently more displeased now. The keening went on and on, making Ludwig clap his hands over his ears as Alfred vented his frustration. Before the scream was dying down, Hannah had hobbled in, older and greying.

"Boy! Ye best be bleedin' iffin yous screaming like that!" Hannah looked at the panting boy as he attempted to regain his breath. After some time, Alfred brought his hands up to his neck as though it would sooth his now irritated throat. Ludwig, for his part, was shrunk back into the window seat and holding the pillow tightly to himself, eyes peeking over the maroon material, terrified.

Hannah glared at him with the intensity of a rabbit trying to be scary, too old to really punish him now. Alfred looked as though his anger had paled in light of the pain in his throat, swallowing like the saliva would coat it and make it feel better.

"Boy, what be your problem?" Hannah asked finally.

Alfred's eyes flashed, anger making a comeback. "His Royal Majesty," he spat, putting as much venom in his words as possible, "has sent out a Proclamation. The colonies are not to expand past the Appalachian Mountains, as it is now an Indian Reserve for the redfaced men who fought against me in the past war and killed my men!" His voice began to rise only to crack in pain, the boy's expression twisting in pain before quieting again, stewing in anger.

Hannah was silent, thinking. _So he's done the bad thing._ She thought to herself with a sigh. _He's trying to take control of a boy who hasn't had control for years and years._

"Mayhap you should stop to think, Massa Alfred." Hannah moved to sit slowly on a stool. "Massa, he don't know your land. He don't know what be going on here. I's sure that iffin you talks to him, it be alright." Ludwig nodded swiftly from his corner.

"Ja!" He managed. "Talk to Herr Kirkland!"

Alfred glared to the duo, then flopped down on a chair, leaning his head on his hand and staring out the window. "That land is my land," he said softly. "I am its representation and I _am_ the land. I should have say over my own people."

Hannah shook her head. "Massa, you has a massa too- the King. Dun be talking bad 'bout that man, he be a good 'un. He coulda done a lot worse."

Alfred didn't raise his gaze from the poor quality glass that distorted the land outside. The candle by the window was lit, letting reflections of fire dance in the glass, making it seem as though the land was raging with a wildfire. He watched the specter of war approach, then spoke again.

"He has left us without any assistance, ignoring our pleas when Indians attacked our people. He aided only when it pleased him, then made laws specifically to target the colonies to make money. He has forced the honest merchant to pay for his Navigation Act. Smuggling to avoid it has only lead to the Writ of Assistance, allowing him to openly search anything he so desires to test for smugglers. The Proclamation denies my people from expanding- we are small and we need more land to better serve the motherland England by producing more crops." Alfred's voice was quiet, almost thoughtful in its serenity. "He has refused my colonies' right to create our own laws and struck down our autonomy which he so praised before."

Ludwig watched with unsure eyes, and Hannah merely sighed. She knew the outcome of this. "Massa, yous can't just tell the king no."

"'A King, by disallowing Acts of this salutary nature, from being the father of his people, degenerated into a Tyrant and forfeits all right to his subjects' obedience.'" Alfred recited from memory, not needing the commentary of Patrick Henry on his lost case against the king about the veto. Alfred blinked a few times slowly and looked his over his shoulder. "Did you know that we are not represented in Parliament?"

Hannah was taken aback by the sudden change in words and turnabout. "What?"

Ludwig, though, understood. He spoke up to explain. "Hannah, its where...where the people who are elected represent the people and make laws to help the people they stand for."

Hannah nodded slowly. "Like how I represent the house matters to the business men since the Massa is still too young?"

Ludwig nodded while Alfred turned his gaze back outside. "I'm don't have any men in Parliament and I'm not allowed to argue about it." He took a breath and let it out gently. "I'm not allowed to argue about anything."

Hannah was unsure of what she could do to help this. It was rapidly deteriorating beyond her control. She chanced a glance to Ludwig, but he was no help. He was too young. "Massa, mayhap iffin you talks to Massa Kirkland..."

Alfred's eyes lowered, eyelids dropping to hood his eyes, hand tracing absently on the tabletop. "Yes. I think I will. Thank you, Hannah."

At the clear dismissal in his tone, Hannah sighed and stood. "Aye, Massa." She took her leave.

For a while, there was silence. Neither Ludwig nor Alfred moved for a good time, but eventually, Ludwig got up. He approached Alfred slowly, but Alfred didn't turn and snap. After standing behind him for a second, he put his hands on Alfred's shoulders. Though Alfred looked calm on the outside, his muscles were taunt and tense. There was an anger in the set of his shoulders and a tightness of pain.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Ludwig asked gently as he began to massage the knots from Alfred's shoulders. It was difficult, but he was determined.

Alfred shook his head silently, trying to relax but failing miserably. Ludwig hesitated, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Alfred's cheek, making Alfred blink in surprise. Ludwig stood straight again, then continued to massage Alfred's shoulders.

"I'm here for you," Ludwig said softly. "I care about you very much." Alfred blinked, head lowering in thought.

"Care...?" He asked, unsure.

Ludwig let his hands drop from Alfred's shoulders before walking around to face Alfred in the chair. "I care about you," he said awkwardly, then leaned forward to meet their lips together awkwardly.

Alfred tensed again, unsure. He was waiting for Arthur- but Arthur had left him alone for years, put laws on him, treated him like a child...

Alfred adjusted to reached upward, putting a hand on Ludwig's cheek and kissing him deeply in return. If he couldn't have the old Arthur, he'd have Ludwig.


	6. Chapter 6

**Yay for chapter six and some more research for details of history! I'm so glad I didn't call Ludwig the German states... -facepalm- Technically, until way later, the German empire was still the Holy Roman Empire. But after 1740, Prussia and Austria were duking it out over Germany, creating German Dualism where he was kinda split. ; So... yeah. I have this though! NO FEAR, FOR I AM AUTHOR. -beats chest and drinks tea- Yes. Have fun reading!**

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==December 16th, 1773==

Alfred grinned to Ludwig, dressed as an Indian and checking out his reflection in a looking glass. "Isn't this cool?" he asked Ludwig. "I'm so awesome. Just wait til England gets a load of this."

Ludwig stared from the bed, sheets pulled up around himself and feeling tired as well as sticky. "Why are you dressed like that?" He asked, pushing his hair back in curiosity to see if it would stay. It merely flopped forward and he sighed. He really hated this. He had gone to war before and has slicked his hair back outside of Prussia's knowledge and had begun to so that at Alfred's house, but the goo he used had run out. Considering how he had writhed on the sheets, it was no surprise the style was out of his hair.

Alfred merely smirked, a hint of malicious intent in the toothy smile. "I'm going to a tea party."

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. "Dressed like a savage?"

Alfred nodded, red, white, and blue feathers quivering with the nod. "Isn't it great?"

Ludwig was confused, so he just shrugged. "Is it to protest the new taxes?" He asked, referring to the many new taxed levied on the colonies. In 1767, the Townshend Acts had been passed, taxing many essential goods like paper, glass, and tea. There had been a protest and some people had died, killed by the British soldiers. It was known across the land as the Boston Massacre, inspiring whispers in the colonies. The Gaspée Affair- a British warship that enforced the unpopular laws had been burned by American patriots. The ruling bypassed the colonies, going straight to London. And now, there was this... tea party?

Alfred smirked, turned from the mirror to display his poorly covered colonial clothing covered in furs and feathers, his face painted with red and blue markings. "Isn't it bloody great?" He asked.

Ludwig's brows came together, frowning. Something told him this was going to be a bad move and it was going to end very badly. Alfred was so peculiar. He didn't see Arthur as England, so he was only angry in that Arthur didn't consult him. But for England, Alfred had a burning hatred that grew with the hour and with each report of British soldiers harming or harrassing what he considered his people, disregarding that he was a colony and didn't have people.

"It's... interesting," he said finally.

Alfred adjusted a feather, eyes gleaming. "It's war."

==Mid 1775==

Alfred strutted around the house confidently, proud of himself and how far he was going. There was a lot of talk about leaving England and he had met some men who were whispering about making it possible. One had struck his eye in particular- a red-haired, quiet but intense man by the name of Thomas Jefferson. He was so interesting and could talk about hours about freedom and liberty, explaining things to Alfred and not patronizing him as George Washington was apt to do. Alfred always left the talks with him buoyed by hope and faith.

He entered his home with a loud announcement, smiling and almost skipping. He ran up the stairs, absolutely carefree. Sure, there were more taxes because England had gotten angry about the tea thing, but he'd fix that soon enough. After all, the Quebec Act was stupid- telling the colonies that some of their land was now Quebec's. Ha! Preposterous.

There was some other acts that were more details, like the Massachusetts Government Act restricting Massachusetts, the Administration of Justice Act, which was a cop-out for British soldiers in trouble. They were sent to London to be tried instead of staying at the colonies, which meant they were almost certainly let go. But, then, right because of the Tea Party, there was the Boston Port Act. England wanted repayment for all the tea dumped or the port was closed forever. At least, til it was paid. There was a Quartering Act too, saying British troops could be housed in peoples' homes without permission. Just not awesome.

Those Acts were known as the Intolerable Acts, and the name excited Alfred. There was talk of war more openly- it was so awesome. He was going to get to fight and show Arthur that he was really grown up! Then Arthur would notice him and see that he was equal and they could be together forever!

Alfred opened the door to his room, the one he shared with Ludwig, then smiled when he saw Ludwig turn around on the desk to see Alfred. His face lit up, a small smile quirking on his lips before he held out his arms in a silent offering of a hug. Alfred darted forward, picking up Ludwig and spinning with him, laughing.

"I'm going to war, Ludwig! It's so cool! I'm going to beat up England and he'll see that I'm all grown-up!" He announced, then dropped to the bed, kissing Ludwig deeply. Ludwig was slightly dizzy, but the kiss sobered him then immediately made him feel drunk again, kissing back with fervour and wrapping himself around the taller boy eagerly.

"Nnngh, Gott, Alfred~" Ludwig whined as Alfred began to explore his body, articles of clothing coming off at a phenomenal rate to bare the quickly wanting boy. Touches and licks made him quiver, tweaking a nipple here making him squeak. A brush of his length and he moaned; a firmer grip and he almost screamed.

Ludwig opened his icy blue eyes to see Alfred, smiling, then saw a shadow move into the room. A sharp click was a heard as a gun was cocked, Ludwig freezing. Ludwig hit on Alfred hard to get his attention, making the older boy pause. Ludwig pointed and Alfred turned.

"Oh, hey, Arthur," he greeted casually, but wasn't ready for the gun pointing at Ludwig's head. Alfred's expression shattered and he looked hurt.

"What the-"

"Get out from under my son." It was cold, it was harsh, and it was positively _vicious_. Ludwig obeyed immediately, darting out of the room. "You're going back to your brother, brat!" The door slammed after the words.

Alfred turned to lay on his back, comfortable with his opened shirt, trousers about his knees and suspenders thrown across the room. He yawned, stretching, then put his hands behind his head to smile up to Arthur. "Hey, Bro."

Arthur glared, emerald hues glowing with anger. "I find you attempting to sodomize the German boy and all you say is 'hey, bro'?" He questioned stiffly, having trouble keeping his eyes from falling on Alfred's body to take in the changes since that night he remembered far too well.

Alfred blinked rapidly, thinking. "Yeah?" He said questioningly. "What else should I say?"

Arthur hissed, making Alfred shrink slightly in confusion. "You could say that you were an actual good child and were saving yourself for marriage. You could say that it was a mistake and there was an excuse for this sorry behavior. You could say anything, Alfred, but by God, did you have to say _that_?"

Alfred frowned. "It wasn't a mistake, and I can't marry. I'm a colony. He and I found out some things that felt really good. Remember when I touched y-"

"Yes, I bloody remember, now shut your lips," England growled in return, setting aside his cloak to keep his eyes from the boy's chest. Where it was once so pathetically thin and childish it was now built and strong, albeit still young.

Alfred tilts his head in thought before standing, uncaring that his trousers fell to the floor, leaving him ony in his unbuttoned shirt- naked, really. He sauntered over to Arthur, putting a hand on the gloved one, then smiled to Arthur. He was just shorter than the elder.

"Hey, Arty, didn't you say that when I was fourteen you'd show me what I did for you?" He asked with a knowing tone. He already knew, but now he had Arthur here. He didn't need anybody else. Sure, Ludwig was nice, but, really, it was _Arthur_.

Arthur stiffened, keeping his green gaze down. "Boy, keep to playing games for your own age and leave the adults to theirs."

Alfred frowned. "But I am an adult. Look at me." He spread his arms wide to showcase his body.

Arthue couldn't resist- he turned to face Alfred. Within the first glance, his breath was stolen away. Such beautiful definition, still noble but strong. Gorgeous pale skin, unmarked with any blemish. It just begged to be touched. He licked his lips, reaching out to brush his gloved hand on the skin, caressing and marking out the edging of the muscle in Alfred's stomach before taking a deep breath and letting his gaze drop.

If his breath had been stolen before, now it was lost at the semi-erect member. The boy was handsome, it was clear, and had no shortage of masculinity. He was the epitome of man.

Arthur dragged his eyes up to see a smirking Alfred. Alfred had seen that gaze and its desire burning in those green eyes, smoldering and predatory, like he wanted to devour Alfred right there. Alfred was all his; his colony, his land, his son, his brother, his anything and everything. He was nobody else's.

Alfred sidled closer to press against Arthur, making the elder swallow hard as he played with the string tie. "So... Daddy..." he murmured softly, invitingly, into Arthur's ear, "I'm older now. Do you want to teach me what a real nation can do?"

Arthur shivered, locked into place. He finally had what he wanted for so long, he was all his and nobody was ever going to take him away. Ever.

Arthur looked to Alfred like a man that found water in a desert, then kissed him deeply, hand rising to tangle in those corn-colored strands, tugging him towards the bed. "Oh, God has blessed me..." He murmured as they fell into the bed, entangled in each other.

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**Ah**, **we return to USUK. Fear not to those who expressed dismay at this possibility. That's all I'm saying about that. -shrugs- I hope you like and stay tuned for the next chapter! :D Please review, dears~**


	7. Chapter 7

**Happy Christmas and Channukah and Solstice and any other holiday that falls in Winter~! :3**

Alfred yawned and stretched, turning in the bed and, because he didn't quite realize how close the edge wall, fell off. He hit the ground with a soft "oomph!" and blinked blearily, tired. He rubbed at his baby blue eyes before standing up, realizing he was naked and, though vaguely curious, it wasn't unpleasant. He looked about for some clothing and tossed on some trousers and a shirt, buttoning it up as he glanced about the room. Arthur wasn't in the bed any longer, so Alfred merely yawned once more before putting his shoes on and heading down to the kitchen.

There, however, was Arthur. His cooking skills were well demonstrated by the smoke billowing form the pan, the smell of burnt eggs filling the air. Alfred's nose twitched at the horrid smell, but he walked in bravely anyway.

"Hey, Arty," he greeted, running a hand on the taller's arm before sitting at the table and looking over a daily paper, missing the short shiver that ran down Arthur's back.

"Don't call me Arty," Arthur answered absently, too focused on the wreck of a breakfast to be too irritated at the pet name. Alfred merely mumbled out a weak affirmative, but Arthur knew it wouldn't stop the headstrong boy from doing it. If anything, it might make it worse, as the boy rather liked to annoy the Briton.

Alfred set down the _Boston News-Letter_ and sighed. There was no change from England and only more determination by the Sons of Liberty to fight the Crown. A war was inevitable.

Arthur gave up his cooking, sliding eggs that were all charcoal onto a plate and sheepishly setting them at the table. "Breakfast is served," he announced. Alfred glanced to them and immediately called for a slave to cook food. In moments, the slave was cooking far better, the aroma of bacon and eggs filling the air, the charocal dumped into a trash bin.

Arthur watched quietly, staring at the easy way that Alfred ordered the slaves and aservants about, as though he truly were the master of his domain. He acted like he owned them, but really, it was all England's. At least, it was in Arthur's mind. He looked to the discarded paper, picking it up and giving it a cursory examination. It was factual, but clearly biased for the colony's view, all but advocating a war. Athur tore it in half, catching Alfred's confused attention, then tossed it in the fireplace.

Alfred frowned. "What was that for?" he asked, puzzled.

Arthur let out a small huff with a sneer. "Because it was pointless and full of Patriot rubbish."

The younger male frowned, taking the plate of food from the slave and beginning to eat, still in the habit of shoveling food in his mouth, but now, he managed it with a certain kind of manners. "Those Patriots are my people."

"Don't be ridiculous. You don't have people," Arthur answered flippantly, expecting it to the the final word on the matter. As he was given his plate of food and began to eat delicately, he didn't see the stare Alfred was giving him.

After a few silent minutes, Alfred spoke up. "I do have people. I am a colony and my people are those who live in them."

Arthur looekd up from the rather tasty food to meet Alfred's eyes with a patronizing smile. "Yes, I suppose that you make them as much your people as they are mine by technicality."

Alfred frowned. "No, no. They're _my_ people, not yours."

Arthur raised a thick eyebrow, amused. "You obey the crown, boy, and thus, you obey me. Because you obey me, I own you and your land. Anything of yours is mine. So, no, Alfred, you do not have people. I have people that live in the colonies." He returned to his meal, content with the finality of his tone.

Alfred stood up, the chair scraping with a almost painful sound against the floor. "Arthur, I have my own land and my own people. I'm not-" he swallowed hard, seeing Arthur's gaze rise with fire behind the emerald hues, daring him to continue.

"I'm not English. I'm American," he managed, clearly nervous about the possible reception this small rebellion might receive.

Arthur's eyes flashed and he straightened his back ramrod straight. "Are you rebelling against me, boy?" He asked softly.

Alfred swallowed down his fear, feeling it knot in his stomach and ball up in his throat. "I am."

Arthur snorted. "Your very name ties you to me. Sit down and rid your mind of his foolishness.

Alfred pushed his plate away, refusing to sit. "I have a new name, now, that I use."

"Oh, do you?" He quiered, not even looking up from his plate, uninterested in the games of young boys.

"I'm not a Kirkland any longer. And I'm not British. I'm Alfred F. Jones, and I will be the United States of America," he nodded firmly, determination firing his expression.

Arthur laughed sharply. "If you don't take your words back and sit down this moment, I will whip you until you can no longer sit." He took a final bite of the eggs and pushed the plate away, waiting for Alfred to drop this silly game.

"I'm serious."

"Then I shall be as well," Arthur replied. His voice took on the authority of England, power resonating in the tone, "British Colony of America, as the representative of the British Crown, _sit down_."

Alfred trembled, feeling the force of his motherland's command press on him, but his will and strength did not give out. He would not give in. He was rebelling and he would stand by the men working to make it possible.

Arthur's eyes widened the tiniest amount as his command did not leave Alfred on the floor, begging for mercy and apologizing. He truly _was_ rebelling, and clearly, there were some factions working to make it happen, with some powerful men aiding his cause.

Alfred stood strong against Arthur, expression full of righteous anger, steeling himself for the punishment that was sure to follow. He was nervous, trembling from slight fear, but did not back down.

"So be it," Arthur said as he stood, placing hands firmly on the table and looking down. "If you wish to rebel, you may. But know this- if it comes to war, then I shall win. You cannot hope to stand against the might of England's wrath. You are too young, too small, and too weak. You have no allies, no army. You are going to fail, and-" he choked on the words, hands tightening into fists, "-and you will die."

Alfred blinked, taken aback. "What?"

"If it comes to war, then we shall have to battle. If we battle, I shall win. And if I win, I will have to kill you," he managed through clear tears, drops falling to the table to darken the wood. "That is war. Are you sure you want to do that?" He looked up to meet Alfred's eyes, heart constricting painfully.

"I do not want to kill you. I love you. But if you put me in this position, I shall have to do as England must, and England will destroy the colonies before the colonies are allowed to be autonomous."

Alfred's eyes skittered from Arthur, confusion clearly written in the hues. He never knew that. But, either way, it was too late to stop it. He wouldn't stop it. If he had to die, he had to die. But he would die a hero, a martyr. He would set his people free at any cost.

Alfred took a deep breath. "I will not stop. I will not give in. I will win my freedom and give my people liberty. And nothing, not even you, will stop me, Arty."

Arthur's head lowered, hanging as more tears fall down his cheeks. "So be it." His voice hitched and he choked on a sob, then pushed it back, standing straight. Nothing in his expressio gave away the inner turmoil except the last falling tear. "Next we meet shall be upon a battlefield." He turned and began to walk away slowly, Alfred's gaze on him the whole time.

He hesitated after a few steps, though, and spoke for the last time in that house, "This is my house. Build your own." He left out the door, closing it hard after himself and making the wall rattle. Alfred sat back down slowly, sighing and holding his head in his hands, shaking.

"I did it. I'm finally fighting. But why do I feel like I'm torn in half?" He asked the air, looking around as he raised his head. The slave that cooked the breakfast merely looked away.

_**The Boston News-Letter**_** was an actual newspaper. Whether it was biased towards the colony's bid for independence, I have no idea. :3 I like to pretend it was. As for the sentence "He would see his people free," well, it's a reference to the wording often used for Moses setting free the oppressed Israelites from the tyrannical Pharaoh. :D**


	8. Chapter 8

==1776==

Alfred leaned his head on his hand, elbow on the table as he daydreamed while the others spoke passionately of how to create a nation, what to write, what to do, what to say. It was difficult to remain neutral in this- though Alfred felt the desire to fight against England, he also felt an odd heaviness when he thought of the upcoming battle. He attributed it to nervousness, but according to the Frenchman at his left, it was the Loyalist faction weighing on his heart.

Francis was much more attentive, calmly listening to the greivances and smiling to himself as he sipped at imported wine, amused. He was attempting to get Spain to join the duo in battle, however, Antonio, though absolutely enraged with Arthur, was staying out of it. He did mention that money might possibly find its way into America's pockets, though, with a flash in green eyes reminding Alfred that though he was like a Papá, he was not entirely reliable.

As Benjamin Franklin began to read his own idea, Alfred's blue eyes almost closed from tired boredom. "Francis!" he hissed quietly, capturing the other blond's attention.

"Oui?" He asked, leaning closer to hear better. Alfred pulled away a little, wary of the ever touchy man.

"How long will this go on?"

Francis shrugged easily. "I haven't a clue, mon ami. This is not my land and it does not follow any king. It is something entirely new." Alfred nodded leaning more to let his chin rest on the hard wood of the table, yawning before closing his eyes, focusing on the words, letting them run over him like warm water. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

He woke up to the sound of chairs scraping against the floor, men standing and shaking hands, words cheerful and pleased. He sat up and looked to Francis, shaking sleep from himself with a stretch. "What's going on?"

Francis wasn't surprised that the young boy had fallen asleep (patience wasn't one of Alfred's virtues), and simply explained, "The meeting of the Second Continental Congress is over and it is time to start editing the Declaration that your Jefferson penned."

Alfred nodded, glancing about the room and seeing men that stood out. Benjamin Franklin. John Adams. Alexander Hamilton. Samuel Adams. Thomas Jefferson. They were all exciting, but none as much as Thomas Jefferson. Alfred privately called him TJ, far too lazy to bother with the full name, occassionally Tommy. He never admitted it though.

Alfred heard a small chuckle from Francis, turning to face the elder curiously. Francis set down the wine glass and gave a sly smile. "Ah, Alfred, what do you think of Thomas Jefferson?"

Alfred couldn't control it- he reddened. "What of him?" His eyes flickered towards the tall, thin man whose red hair made him stand out. The man had a lisp, but his written words (when read to Alfred, whose reading skills were rudimentary, at best) were powerful and resonated in his mind long after he had read them.

Francis' laugh was light and soft, gently patting Alfred on the head and petting him. "Alfred, don't be scared. It's obvious that you admire him." Alfred nodded sheepishly.

"He's very interesting, and he writes very well..." he murmured, lowering his eyes almost demurely.

Francis smiled, undoing the small braid of Alfred's hair and redoing it easily, Alfred not moving and allowing Francis to play with his har as he pleased. "Can you even read well enough to understand it?"

"Slowly, but I don't like reading. I really prefer to be read to..." he answered, feeling small tugs on his head as Francis' deft fingers tightened the braid. He made a bow with a blue ribbon on the end of the braid, the hair just brushing Alfred's shoulder blades against the brown vest.

Francis put his hand on Alfred's shoulder, spinning him lightly to face the shorter boy. "Perhaps you can get him to teach you to read better? Or to read to you~?" He smiled, teasing, but also serious.

Alfred blushed more. "Do you think he would?"

Francis shrugged. "Perhaps. He does have a wife and a child, and I believe his wife is expecting another soon. But perhaps he will, at least, entertain the thought."

Alfred looked to Jefferson, who was almost ready to leave, packing up his final drafts before stepping towards the door. Alfred felt a soft push on his back, looking over his shoulder to see Francis smiling. "Go, mon ami. You need support that he can provide." Alfred smiled and nodded, darting off to intercept him.

Jefferson paused, seeing the young teenager appear before himself. "Hello?" he greeted curiously. "How can I help you?"

Alfred smiled and waved, clearly a touch nervous. "I'm Alfred F. Jones. I'm, uh, I'm America." He smiled like it would make more sense with a bright smile, making the man arch an eyebrow.

"America? I'm afraid I don't underthand," he replied, his lisp making an appearance, making Alfred turn pink.

"I _am_ America. I mean, I'm the... what's the word Arty always used...?" He mumbled to himself. "Person-i-nation?"

Jefferson tilted his head, not dismissing the idea. After all, all is possible. "Perthonification?"

"Yeah, that!" He nodded, expression clearing. He stuck out his hand to shake, Jefferson taking it and shaking it with soft authority.

"Then it ith a pleathure to meet you, Mr. Jone'." Jefferson pulled his hand away and adjusted the bag he held on his shoulder. "Would you like to thpeak about the Delcalathon draft?"

Alfred nodded. "Yeah! I'm excited to know what we're going to tell the King!"

Jefferson smiled gently. "Then let uth go," he replied, walking out of the stuffy room to the streets, looking about. "Have you a houthe?"

Alfred looked to the side. "No, it's not built yet. It's being worked on, though. We can go to a pub or something, if you want."

Jefferson frowned the slightest bit. "No, not a pub. Perthap' a small French cafe," he offered, his love of France and its culture showing in the hope he could not hide in his voice.

The younger laughed. "If you please," he led the way to a nearby cafe, smiling, then ordered himself some coffee, Jefferson getting some very odd French drink.

After a short time of semi-comfortable, semi-awkward silence, Jefferson spoke. "If you are a nathon, how do you exitht? What make' you a nathon?"

Alfred set down the extremely sweetened coffee and frowned, thinking. "I don't know. I just am. I feel the people and what they want, I feel the land and the power under my fingertips. If I don't touch the ground every so often, I feel lonely, like I'm missing something." He traced the edge of the thick cup, pleased at the taste.

"I feel the people's hope and fear, and I feel the people when they are hurt. Like Mama. I know her people are being hurt and pushed away, out of the land that England has given to me, but I don't feel it." He took a sip of coffee as Jefferson's eyes watched him serenely. "My mama is the natives, you know. Savages...But it's still Mama. I just don't get to see her anymore."

He didn't enough know why he was talking about his mother- he never did anymore. After all, he had only been found by England because he had wandered too far from his mother's watchful eyes, then all but kidnapped by England, really. He loved his mother, but honestly, she was a savage. England had taught him that. Wearing furs, speaking a silly language- Alfred could barely remember her memory. He did know, though, that he wasn't allowed to see her at any time anymore. He did anyway- she watched over him. If he saw her, she would dart off, not to be seen again for a year or so.

Jefferson spoke up, voice light, "Are you alright?" His eyes were watchful over the drink, concern hiding behind the hues.

Alfred realized what turn his words had taken and laughed it off immediately. "Yeah, sorry, I guess I got depressing, huh?" He chuckled. "I guess I do that when I think about being a nation and how long I've been around. It's not that long, so many other countries are so much older than me, but it's a long time to people. I didn't have any history before England, though, so I'm glad he found me. I felt useless."

Jefferson nodded, patiently listening. Alfred, though, understood that he had gotten off topic again. "Sorry... I keep talking about things that are really boring, I bet."

"No," Jefferson replied, smiling. "It'th rather intere'ting to see how a nathon view' the world. Tho different than I thee it."

Alfred blushed, looking down to his coffee and taking a few drinks to stall for time. "So... uhm, what are you writing for the Declaration?"

Jefferson set down the cup and smiled, proud. "That all men have the right to be free, the right to life, liberty, and the purthut of happineth. That the king hath taken thethe thingth and broken hith contract with the people. He promithed, as king, to provide and care for hith thubjectth." He nodded. "Thuth, we have the right, nay, we mutht take pwoer for ourthelveth and make a new land to provide for the common man."

Alfred watched him speak, fascinated. This man was so intelligent, so wise. He had to be right! He was struck with absolute dedication to the new, burgeoning nation. He had to support it! That king was horrible, tearing down what the people made.

"Yeah!" Alfred responded, eyes bright. "You're totally right."

Jefferson raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to think tho." He sipped at the coffee with a smile. "Tho, tell me what you think I thould write."

Alfred was taken aback. "You want my ideas?"

Jefferson looked slightly puzzled. "Why wouldn't I? If you are the new nation, then thurely you have a thay in thith ath well."

Alfred smiled even bigger than before. Nobody ever asked him for his ideas, for his opinion. Was this what it was like to be a nation? Important? Would the world care about him, would he be strong enough to save all the hurt, sad people and be a hero? England would finally respect him, finally think of him as an equal. He wouldn't just be the annoying child, to be seen and not heard. He'd be America, a nation worth listening to and worth thinking about.

Alfred immediately launched into his ideas, the day waning around them to twilight before Jefferson finally put up a hand to silence the talkative boy, "Alfred, Alfred, hold yourthelf," he said, laughing with pleased eyes.

Alfred blinked, words dying on his lips and bringing his hands down from the pictures he was drawing in the air. "Oh. Did I do something wrong?"

Jefferson shook his head, smiling. "No, it'th jutht late and you ought to be going home, ath well ath I."

The young blond looked embarrassed, face reddening as he looked down. "Sorry, I took up a lot of your time with really silly ideas and they're probably really stupid and you won't want to talk to me again. I'm sorry, it's because I'm too young to understand such big things..."

Jefferson shook his head. "No, no. It'th not that. You ideath are really thomething and you're very thmart. I like your mind." Alfred was surprised, reddening from the praise.

"Thank you," he said. He really wasn't used to being valifated at all. "I...I'm really glad you like it." Jefferson stood, stretched some before ruffling Alfred's hair gently.

"You've done well. I will thee you at the netht meeting, America."

Alfred beamed. "Yeah, I'll see you then." He watched Jefferson walk off and turn the corner before leaping up with a huge grin, running to the inn where Francis was staying and just barging in the room. It was nicely decorated, but clearly an inn, impersonal and not worth what Francis was paying. The Frenchman in question was in the middle of putting new sheets and blankets on the bed, rather displeased with the cheap cloth that had been on them originally.

"Bonjour, Alfred," he said, not really all that surprised. "Have you made a good connection?"

Alfred was panting, features flushed with triumph and exertation. "Yeah! He's amazing and he listened to me and he thought my ideas were cool and h-e- he- he's just so brilliant!"

Francis smiled, sitting on the bed. "Well, as wonderful as that is, you have other things to worry about, mon ami." Alfred sat down in a nearby chair, though clearly excited.

"What are you talking about?" He asked once he began to calm down, chest no longer heaving with huge gasps of air.

Francis put a hand to his chin, brushing over the bristles there softly. "Nothing in this world is free, Alfred. You must pay for all things." He tilted his head, bright blue eyes glancing over the lithe teen's body.

Alfred tensed at the lewd stare, unsure of what was going on. "Okay... What am I paying for?"

Francis smiled with just enough lechery to make Alfred uncomfortable, shifting a little. "My help, mon petit chou~" He purred, then made a beckoning motion with his finger, causing Alfred to stand and walk over cautiously. "You want my men, my money, and my weapons, oui?"

He nodded. "Yeah... I need help. There aren't enough men, Washington says, and I need some more. I'm lucky that Uncle Prussia said he'd send some men and a general guy over, Von Steuben or something, to help."

Francis leaned back on his hands on the bed, feet firmly planted on the floor. "What do I usually make those who owe me do?"

Alfred tilted his head slowly. "I don't get it. What are you talking about?"

The taller blond chuckled. "Alfred, you are are not stupid. Naive, I see, though. It seems that Angleterre did not get as far as he could have liked with you." Alfred was still absolutely confused. "Now, be a good boy and get to your knees."

Alfred did so slowly, staring as his knees his the floor, then his head made a tiny jerk when he understood. "Ah, get it, oui?"

Alfred turned scarlet, gaze on the ground. "Yes," he said, licking his lips. "I- I understand."

Francis leaned his head back, eyes closing. "Get to work, little Amerique."

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**Hey all~! :D Thanks for your patience in waiting for the new chapter. As for Jefferson's adorable lisp, there's no conclusive evidence for it, but there's some hints that he either stuttered or had a lisp and that was the reason he didn't like speaking in public but preferred to be a writer. Hope you like! Please review!**


	9. Chapter 9

Just as Alfred began to pull the trousers from Francis' form, the door slammed open hard, smacking against the wall behind and making Alfred flinch backwards and fall to his bottom. He was scarlet, embarrassed and ashamed. What had he been about to do?

The newcomer stared, crimson eyes blinking and taking in the scene. Francis piqued an eyebrow, pouting some upon seeing the fellow Bad Touch member at the door an interrupting his little bluff. Of course he wouldn't truly make Alfred pay, that was just ridiculous. He didn't particularly like the touch of virgin children. Mainly children, but the virgin part was rather disliked too. He just wanted to test Alfred's determination.

Gilbert, however, was not so convinced. His eyes glowed with rage and he shook with the effort of not throwing himself on Francis and running him through with the sword at his side. "Was? Was ist dieses! D-Du Perversling! Du! Du Kinderschänder! Hurensohn! Fotze! Du bist ein feiger Hund! Ich werde dich vernichten! Ich werde Fetzen Ihren Darm! Gott wird dir nie verzeihen!"

Francis sighed and leaned back in his seat, fixing his trousers and smiling slightly. "I wasn't really going to," he said soothingly, but Gilbert was still fuming. "It was to test his determination." Alfred was staring at his uncle, terrified, sapphire eyes as big as dinner plates. He'd never seen Prussia _that_ angry before, and he never wanted to again.

"Raus hier!" Gilbert growled out, eyes flickering to Alfred with the harsh command. Alfred's mind was frozen though, and the simple command wasn't clicking.

"Gehen auf!" Gilbert added, pointing to the door. He wasn't in the mood to coddle the boy's language failure. This time, though, Alfred got the message, darting out of the room in a flash and leaving the calm Frenchman to the raging Prussian.

As Alfred left, the blond heard Gilbert raging on in German, Francis replying in soft French. He chuckled weakly for a moment. It was kind of funny to hear the rough language replied to with the melody of French. It was kind of lucky that they each knew the other's language, though Francis refused to ever speak anything but French to anybody but Alfred. Alfred's French was too poor and Francis would rather speak English than hear Alfred tear apart his beloved language.

Alfred heard something hit the wall and a painful grunt and panicked, running off down the hallway and outside. He couldn't deal with his Uncles fighting.

Alfred waited in the garden for one of them to meet him and tell him what to do, but it took hours and the boy wasn't able to deny himself sleep from both boredom and the excitement of the day. He was out as the moon rose, the soft grass a lovely blanket.

* * *

"OI! GET YOUR ASS UP!" Alfred was kicked viciously and tumbled across the garden, smashing many plants and flowers to oblivion. He yelped and tried to stand quickly, anticipating another strike and holding up his arms defensively.

Gilbert snorted. "That's pathetic. Arms like that won't protect you from anything." He threw Alfred a musket, the boy catching it with one hand, staring at the firearm with something akin to wonder. Gilbert caught onto it quickly. "Was? Never shot one?"

Alfred blinked, examining the weapon with fascination. "No, Arthur never let me touch one..."

"Well, you're going to learn," the Prussian declared. "Copy the stance you've seen others use when they shoot." He tapped his hand on his thigh, keeping time to measure how long it took the boy to figure it out.

The blond fumbled with it, slicing his hand open on the bayonet in a move that Gilbert found positively fantastical and improbable. He stared with a kind of stupid wonder at Alfred's utter failure, Alfred staring at the blood dripping from his hand thoughtfully. Slowly, it began to knit back together, though the blood didn't disappear. It coagulated and darkened before Alfred picked it off like a scab, blinking. After a few moments of contemplation, Alfred's head rose with wonder and fear in his bright baby blue eyes.

"Uncle Gilbert... I'm really a nation. I- I really heal like a nation," he gulped out. He wanted it so badly- so why did this revelation terrify him? Gilbert raised a meticulously kept silver brow and adjusted the cravat of his uniform to better breathe.

"Ja. You do. You're a nation, boy," he informed the other. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. "And yet you're just a stupid as you've ever been. Can't shoot a musket, can't even hold it properly, you cut your hand open on the bayonet and-"

"That's what the sharp thing is called?" Alfred interrupted, turning the musket over in his hands, making sure not to touch the bayonet. The shine on the metal was flat and it was dirty as well as incredibly dull.

Gilbert could only stare in a sick fascination. The boy truly had no idea what he was doing. He had at least hoped Alfred would hold the damn thing, if not shoot it. "Yes, Alfred. It's called a fucking bayonet."

"Oh..."

Gilbert pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. He didn't get the move from that stuffy Roderich, of course. He made it up himself to express annoyance. "Boy, what DO you know of war?"

Alfred held the musket at an angle, finger hovering over the trigger before moving it to rest along the length of the barrel. "It's how I'm going to be free." His gaze was determined, though the juxtaposition of his baby fattened cheeks and the innocence in his stance was awkward. Gilbert couldn't fault him for enthusiasm, at least, or lack of drive. That was something that he had innately. It was a good thing too. No war was ever won with pussy-footed idiots thinking that they might jaunt over and smack a few heads and suddenly the war was over. Alfred might just make it. Barely, if he did, but there was that possibility.

The Prussian scratched his chin, feeling the faint prickles of a long day stubbling his chin, then grimaced. Beards weren't his thing. He'd have to speak to a barber later. "Alright, kid. Let's see what I can do with you to make you a soldier..."

* * *

Alfred fell to the ground, trembling with fatigue, and reached for the musket just out of reach. A boot clad foot slammed on the weapon and the setting sun silhouetted Gilbert, his scarlet eyes flaring with anger.

"Just a few hours of standing at attention and suddenly your muscles become jelly? You're a piece of shit, you're useless, and you'll never make it as a soldier! No general would ever use you for anything but cannon fodder or as a bullet catcher!" A screech tore free of his throat and made Alfred flinch, looking around for another person.

"Somebody translate some insults for me!" He screamed at a nearby Prussian fighter that had followed him across the ocean, the soldier darting off for the translator. Across the field, Von Steuben was doing the exact same thing at another young man, the American all but crying in front of the Prussian commander. Alfred at least wasn't in tears. He was just pathetically tired.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Gilbert!" he wailed. "I'm sorry!" He scratched at the ground, attempting in vain to pull himself into a standing stance once more to please the albino Prussian.

Gilbert spat on the ground mere millimeters from Alfred's face, making him flinch back from the liquid. "Get up."

"I'm trying!" he exclaimed, managing to push himself to his hands and knees, his entire frame shaking. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes. He blinked them away. He couldn't let Gilbert make him cry! He had to show him! Slowly, he was on one knee, quivering violently before forcing himself to stand. Though he was a mess, not nearly in form, and his muscles were jumping, Gilbert gave a triumphant grin, arms crossing.

"Gut!" He barked out. "You feel the burning in your muscles? You fee the pain?"

"Y-yessir, I do..." Alfred said, trying to be loud and speak from his belly but managing only to murmur it.

"You know what that feeling is?"

"No, sir... What is it?"

Gilbert leaned in close to the boy's face, seeing determination still shining brightly in those blue eyes, right behind utter exhaustion and frustration. "That's power. If you can control that power and use it, nobody will ever stand in your way."

His foot rose from the weapon. "Pick up your musket, boy!"

Alfred bent at the waist, not trusting his knees to straighten after bending and grabbed it after a few failed attempts, back aching and knees threatening to give up, but pulled himself up, holding the musket at something approximating the correct 45 degree angle.

Gilbert began to march back and forth in front of Alfred, the boy staring into space as though nothing was there, like he had been taught. "There's a new book out on war," the Prussian said sharply. "An ancient Chinese manuel explaining War and how to win. It's been translated into French and I'm working on turning it into German, but, you're lucky I know English enough to beat its knowledge into your skull."

He made a sharp about face and a ninety degree turn to face Alfred, gazing down at the slightly shorter boy. "There's one quote I think fits you and Arthur best. Have you ever heard it?"

Alfred blinked, having almost spaced off into a standing sleep, but shook his head. "No, sir!"

"Do you even know what I'm _talking_ about?" he queried.

"No, sir!"

"Wonderful," Gilbert muttered sarcastically. He removed his hat and used it to fan himself, cooling off before replacing it with a sharp, practiced motion. "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle," he recited. "What do you think it means with you two?"

Alfred looked utterly lost. "Uh-"

"No stammering!"

"Yessir!" He answered immediately, thinking hard for a few long beats before speaking again. "It means, sir that, that I have to know England and know myself, or I won't win!"

Gilbert shook his head. The boy had a knack of making the intelligent stupid without losing its meaning too much. "It means that you have to understand him. It means you have to understand yourself. Can you honestly say you know either?"

Alfred hesitated. "I know myself, sir?" he asked though he meant for it to be a statement, unsure.

"Do you?" Gilbert asked, smirking. Alfred didn't respond.

"No, you don't, idiot," he answered for the boy and sighed, picking up his hand and running his hand through his hair. "Look, Alfred, you're just a boy, and a stupid one, at that. Why are you even bothering to fight?" He prodded, wanting to anger the boy enough to making him think, because he clearly wasn't.

Alfred bristled, straightening and falling into form much better, trembling ceasing. "I want to prove to him that I can be a man, sir."

"Then be one," Gilbert answered sharply.

"Yessir!"

"And what do you know of him? What will give you the advantage in this war?" Gilbert pressed further.

"He loves me..." Alfred murmured lowly, eyes lowering to stare at the ground. "He won't hurt me, no matter how angry he is. He could barely bring himself to give me a spanking, let along a whipping."

Gilbert smirked. That was the boy he knew. That was the soldier he was cultivating. ruthless and cold. "How will you use that to your advantage?"

Alfred bit his lip, eyes wavering before he nodded sharply and the determination was at the forefront again. "I'll put myself between him and my army. He won't hurt me and my army will defeat him. England will bow to America," he declared solemnly. "And he will see me as a grown up. And then, he'll love me like he says he does and we won't ever have to fight again."

A bit lengthy for Gilbert's taste and a bit emotional, but the boy got it. "Gut, gut. Now, be a man and march with your army. Tomorrow, you face England. The English have camped over that hill yonder. You're lucky I was here."

Alfred was amazed, glancing over to the hill Gilber had indicated, the bare outline of the hill visible, the sun almost entirely under the horizon. "The army is over there?"

"Ja," Gilbert replied, amused. "Thank God I got here before the English did, ja?"

Alfred looked to the other with utter reverence in his eyes. "Thank you..."

"Ja, ja," Gilbert was suddenly embarrassed and irritated at the sudden emotion. It wasn't his sort of thing to be emotional and full of feelings. "Shut up and go to sleep. It's supposed to rain in the morning so you'll be marching in mud. Get." He shooed Alfred away, the boy's bright eyes full of fire.

Once Alfred was gone, he sighed and rubbed at his head, feeling the humidity in the air and seeing the clouds on the horizon. "Good luck, kid. You're going to need it."

* * *

**AN: Muwaha. So I was a good little author and didn't make Alfred do such a naughty thing as suck off France. 3 I hope you all like the story, because it's wrapping up next chapter! Please review, it fuels me to write sooner.**

**The Art of War quote is from **_**The Art of War**_**, and it's a really friggin old Chinese document saying how to fight a war. Surprising, right? I know! It's by Sun Tzu, though there are other versions of the name depending on how you change the Chinese letting to English.**

**Von Steuben was quite like Prussia in that he really did demand for people to translate his insults into English to better chew out the failing American soldiers. I didn't go into detail of how Prussia trained America because, well, there are some fics out there that do an admirable job and I didn't feel like basically repeating them in my own style. 3**

**Have a great day after reviewing! XD**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey guys! It's the last chapter of "Special Kind of Siren." Are you guys excited? I am! I've had this ending planned for a few months, bu FanimeCon and Finals and problems with an internship have really killed me when I go to write this. 3 I hope you guys like it!**

Alfred stared out the window at the rain pouring relentlessly. Behind him, the Spanish state was slipping some gold into his bag before leaving noiselessly. Alfred knew, and Antonio knew, and everybody else knew, really, but Antonio didn't really want to make it public. He just gave Alfred some gold for his war and left. Alfred was sure it was his grudge against Arthur for the Armada thing.

Alfred's reflection stared back at him, the warped glass hard to see through and reflecting as poorly as it showed the outside. Drops were invisible, but he saw long trails on the glass until they were replaced with more drops. It was interesting to see, Alfred thought. It really showed how much older he was.

Now that he was declaring independence, choosing how his own house ran (poorly and with a lot of help), and spending money on a war he had no idea how to win even with Prussia's help, he'd filled out and begun to grow. He was still a lanky, gangly boy, but he was a teenager. Most people approximated him to be about sixteen, a perfectly respectable age for Arthur to want to be with. Many sixteen year olds had families, after all. And children, too. Married. Maybe finally... with this stupid war over one way or another, Arthur would see him as he saw himself; an adult.

"I'm ready," he said, turning to face General Washington. "Let's march out tomorrow and meet the English forces head-on. I don't want to retreat and run away and lose anymore. Ge as many men as you can and be by my side. The English have marched to me, so I want to meet them."

"There are rumors that England himself is with his army this time, America." The general answered. "Do you still want to meet him?" At his side the Prussian general waited, speaking softly in French to a young man, who was smiling up to the taller man with a content expression. He called Von Steuben's attention to Alfred, who waited for him to look before answering.

"Yes. I want him to see that I mean business and that I am serious about this. I haven't met him in war yet and I think it's important," Alfred answered firmly.

Washington and Von Steuben nodded slowly, exchanging glances. Washington's was faintly disgusted and Von Steuben's was knowing, but they didn't comment for a few moments. Von Steuben was the one who broke the silence. "Then we march tomorrow Prepare yourself. Wash your musket. Make sure it fires and get a waterproof bag for your ammunition and powdrer."

Alfred noded and turned back to the window. "I will. I'll see you tomorrow morning then."

The men took their leave, allowing Alfred to think and plan on his own.

* * *

It was still raining buckets, which didn't surprise Alfred. The armies faced offf, but when Alfred saw Arthur, it shrank to that green-eyed man and left the rest outside of his vision. He stepped forward, his sharp step drilled into him by Gilbert and Von Steuben faltering. "Arthur..." he said softly, voice far too low to be heard by any but the wind.

Arthur wasn't as easily swayed and stepped forward, musket in hand as he glared. "This is your last chance!" he called out loudly, even as tears dripped down his cheeks to mingle with the rain. "Come back to England!"

Alfred stiffened and brought his musket up to his shoulder, the poise and form failing him s he tried to level it against his big brother. No! Not his big brother! "Sorry England! I'm choosing freedom. I'm not a.. a little kid anymore. And I'm not your little brother, either! I'm declaring independence!" Yes, that sounded sharp and authoritative. Perfect. Cut family ties, done. Now they wouldn't be the creepy brother-couple. And declaring independence, good idea to repeat it. It meant he was serious. And that he didn't need England, even if he did. IT sounded good though.

"I won't allow it!" Arthur bellowed, running forward, surprising Alfred. He didn't have the thought in mind to actually shoot and instead changed the angle of the musket, blocking the bayonet of Arthur's gun and getting a massive, deep scratch before it was thrown from his hands.

"You don't have the strength to stand on your own," Arthur said, gun barrel right in Alfred's face and tone commanding. Behind him, his men cried out to fire, to shoot down that traitorous brat and show him the power of the English Empire!

Alfred was leaning back, eyes closing tightly for a moment before he opened them fearfully. Arthur was- was really going to fire, he was really going to destroy him. Without much warning and a stifled sob, the gun dropped with Arthur, the elder nation falling to his knees and holding his face.

"I..I can't do it... You bloody fool... Dammit... Why... Dammit!" He began to bawl uncontrollably, gun falling to the muddy ground as he tried wiping his face off, but the rain would simply mock him, crying for him.

"England...Arthur..." Alfred said, remembering the day before the first time he had touched Arthur, memories flashing through his mind.

_He was tiny, looking up to the Englishman, nervous. Arthur had been acting oddly, recently. But as the sun went down, a wind came up and stirred Arthur's clothing as he held out his hand. "Let's go home."_

_Alfred stared, the smile somehow unnerving to him before he hesitantly brought his hand up to grasp the offered hand. His own hand could fit in England's palm, almost, and he dropped the straw hat he'd used to block the sun. Alfred was so little compared to the strong nation. So tiny. Arthur was so powerful.._

"You used to be so big..." Alfred said slowly, realizing that though he still wasn't as tall as Arthur, still wasn't as big, or as powerful, Arthur was far from the unapproachable ruler he had once been. He wasn't the single authority, the perfect being of light that led him, held him when ghosts came around, kissing his tears away when he was hurt, and teaching him what it meant to be an adult or a nation. Alfred was finally his equal, finally enough for Arthur to see that he was an adult and they could be together.

"I love you... We can... we can be together now, right...? We aren't brothers anymore... and I'm grown up... I'm not little, like you said was wrong..." He said, scared and nervous even as he tried to sound smooth.

Arthur snorted from his position on the ground, looking up with faintly glaring, but hurt green eyes. "You're an idiot if you think it's that easy for me to stop thinking of you as a child. A git for doing this to me. You're... you've ruined me for anybody else in this world... You're my own special kind of siren..."

As Alfred took this in, his head lowered to hang, staring at the grey-brown mud staining his uniform and his skin.

"I love you too..." Alfred added, lowly and to himself. He began to cry as well, more softly.

The rain was a blessing, possibly. It covered their tears from their men, even though they stood around, confused and unsure. But whatever England and America choce, they would support their chosen nation to the end. It was only whether their nation would support them in return.

* * *

The English Empire surrended all claim to the American territories and colonies with the Treaty of Paris on September 3rd, 1783. As David Heartley signed in lieu of the British monarch beneath the signatures of John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, and John Jay (representing the United States), Arthur stood silently and expressionless. The first point caught his eye most of all.

_The British crown acknowledges the Thirteen Colonies to be free, sovereign and independent States, and that the British Crown and all heirs and successors relinquish claims to the Government, propriety, and territorial rights of the same, and every part thereof._


End file.
